


The Story Tellers of Stalag 13

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 19:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Every place and time has its stories and its story tellers, it's true.  Stalag 13, prisoner of war camp in Germany during WWII had a shortage of many things, but stories and story tellers?  Not so much.  In fact, if you asked Sergeant Hans Schultz, there were perhaps too MANY stories and story tellers for his comfort.





	The Story Tellers of Stalag 13

It seems there was always something going on at Stalag 13, enough Sergeant Schultz sometimes wondered who was going to cause him to pull his remaining hair out first, the Kommandant, his fellow guards or the prisoners. Between the argument over the cockroach races that led to an all-barracks fist fight, the laughter after lights-out that kept leading him to having to confiscate that pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game (and that little moustache that kept showing up on the donkey, and not just on its face and not just in the PRISONERS' barracks either! Mein Gott!), those and a multitude of other things, they were going to drive him mad! 

And the story telling? Well, the stories from the prisoners were different, of course, sometimes interesting but sometimes confusing him greatly. Some of that he put down to them being not-German, from countries he had never visited and about which he knew not so much. Sometimes the stories were about their families or friends back home, but often he suspected they were connected to their monkey business, about which he preferred to know NOTHING. And the stories from Colonel Hogan? Ach! Those were stories Schultz didn't WANT to know whether they were true or not, or why Hogan decided to tell that particular story at that particular time. It was just best that way. He might prefer to know NOTHING, but THAT was something he DID know.

But the stories that came from the guards' barracks were just as bad in their own way. Sometimes he wasn't sure which was the worst, Corporal Langenscheidt and his scary stories that had everyone looking into dark corners for stray monsters, Private Brust and his stories of naughty frauleins (and sometimes even more naughty frauen!), or Corporal Dieter Van with his very uncomfortable way of looking into a particular man's eyes for several minutes, then telling them all a story that often left that man wide-eyed and shaken and the rest of the men strangely silent.

Well, last week he'd been startled out of a much needed sleep by Private Ernst screaming about flying snakes and talking skeletons; it seems Corporal Langenscheidt had come up with a new story about that old castle outside Hammelburg. Such an imagination Karl had! Always a new story, but this one? Flying snakes, indeed, red ones! and wearing tiaras even! Ach du lieber! Tiaras?? Karl swore he'd heard the tale from one of the prisoners, but that didn't seem too likely. After all, where would the prisoners even hear any stories about that castle except from Karl himself? More likely, Karl had had a bad mug of beer in town. That was the only reasonable explanation. Still, it wasn't perhaps as bad as the story of that restaurant in a neighboring town where the meat pies supposedly were . . . Ah, well, the less said the better about that, at least for the peace of Schultz's stomach. He knew he would never be able to eat there again, which was a shame, because they had this cute little blonde waitress with such a pretty smile!

Private Brust's latest story, about that buxom frau, and her fool of a husband who preferred to drool over the silly young local barmaid rather than tending to business at home, and the sly traveling salesman who had been more than willing to take up the slack (so many times and in so many ways!!) had disrupted Schultz's sleep too, and laying awake staring at the ceiling, never had his Gretchen seemed so far away. Gretchen, with her belabouring voice when he'd forgotten to pick up the bread like he was supposed to. Gretchen, with her reassuring smile when one of the kinder had a bad dream. Gretchen with her strong thighs and breasts like melons and a heat like she could melt . . . Schultz let out another groan, anticipating another night when sleep would be hard to come by. 

'Hard', no, that was not a word he should be focusing on. Still, it was perhaps comforting that the word still had meaning for him, but it was hardly convenient, being stuck in a barracks of other men, men he was supposed to be providing an example for. He wondered just how good their hearing was, shifted slightly in his cot as an experiment, and heard the resultant creak loud and clear. Their hearing didn't have to be good at all, it would appear, he realized with a disappointed sigh.

Perhaps he would approach Kommandant Klink tomorrow, see if he could wrangle a pass to visit his Gretchen. Maybe she would wear that white embroidered blouse that always strained to confine her fulsome breasts, her green skirt that outlined her generous buttocks when she leaned over, her mouth as hot and welcoming as . . . He groaned, and shifted positions once again.

A few days later, considering the matter, struggling to keep his weary eyes open after his troubled sleep, he decided the worst had to be Corporal Dieter Van. The Corporal didn't tell stories very often, thank Gott! not nearly so much as the other two guards known for the activity. But when he did, you remembered them, they struck a deep note in the listeners. All of the listeners, but always in particular, ONE of the listeners. Frequently that was a very uncomfortable note.

You never knew with Corporal Van, just what his stories might bring. They might be amusing, they might be frightening, they might be heated with lust or sweet with romance. Frankly, Schultz found them all more than a little disturbing. For Corporal Van didn't just tell stories to the group. Oh, no. He told his stories to ONE man in the group, though with the others welcome to listen if they chose. The problem was, in Schultz's mind, that pause before the story telling, when Van would look into the eyes of one of the men. Somehow, Van seemed to look far deeper than was possible, far deeper than was possibly wise. And then he would sit back, sigh, and be silent for a minute, maybe two, and then the story would begin.

 

Two weeks ago it had been Karl Langenscheidt who'd caught Van's eye, and it had been Karl Langenscheidt, wide-eyed, who'd listened to that story. It was a quiet little story, with some amusing parts and some cunning parts, all about a quiet young man who yearned, but knew not for which he yearned. A reason to be, a reason to believe, a purpose to his life - perhaps all of that. And how the young man, while walking in the woods, found a magic pencil, and found, with that magic pencil, he could create the most wonderful, the most fantastic stories, stories that would capture the hearts and imaginations of nearly all who heard them. Well, excepting those who had no heart or imagination to capture, of which, Van remarked sadly, there were always a few.

And still, there was a yearning in the young man's heart, and that yearning dampened his joy in the creating of his wonderful stories. Til, one day, walking in that same wood, he met a fair young beauty, one who seemed to possess as much magic as that magic pencil. Shy, that young beauty was, and it was not easy gaining her confidence. Still, gradually, over time, that wary smile was replaced by one much warmer, and soon there was much holding of hands, and then shy kisses. He had thought to introduce her to his friends, but she told him, sadly, that that could not be, that to bring her to the notice of others would lead only to an ill fate for both of them. He had thought to tease her out of that stance, but he remembered the stories he had himself heard, and he wisely decided to accept that constraint. 

And he found he had no regrets, not really, except that there were responsibilities, duties they both had that kept them from being together all the time, as they would have preferred. Still, faithful they were to each other, and when others asked about how the young man spent his time, he would blush and recite a name, one of many, Gerta, Ingrid, Elsa, Clara, Liesbeth, and others, but never speaking the name his sweet had given him as being hers truly - Oliphisia. And for the magical, mysterious Oliphisia? Well, there were those who questioned her about her doings, as well, and for all we know, she may have given a string of names also, though never speaking the name of the one she'd come to love so well, holding his name to her heart as a great treasure.

And, in the fullness of time, their responsibilities to others were relieved, and though both had been pulled far away from that enchanted wood, they made their way back there in full haste, with the aid of some kind friends. There, in the sweetness of the spring growth on the trees, they found each other, and soon there was a small house in a place itself heavy with magic. And there the writer wrote his stories, with his sweet Oliphisia by his side, and if there was still mystery and magic, well, that only added to the joy and contentment, and never did they regret their meeting or their resolve.

 

Well, that had been a nice enough story, one that left Karl blushing and with a shy, eager smile on his homely face, a smile that almost made him just a little handsome.

 

Last night it had been Schultz's turn, even though he'd tried to back away, claim his duties demanded he be elsewhere. But the rest of the guards were having no part of that. No, once Van settled on you, it seemed you had little choice but to listen. So Schultz had sighed deeply, set his helmet aside, propped his rifle against the wall and sat down to hear what he most likely would prefer not to hear.

At least it seemed it would not be a bad story, not from that gentle smile that came to Van's lips. Perhaps this would not be so bad. Afterwords, Schultz could never have told you whether that was indeed the case or no. Not bad, perhaps, but certainly puzzling, more than a little fanciful and foolish!

"Such a man, Sergeant Schultz! I never would have guessed it! Not that I mean any offense, truly, but the kinder! So many! So very, very many! And all so very different. Tall and short, dark and light, some with one voice, some with another entirely. So many kinder, of so many ages and faces and fates! Some few look like you, have your eyes, your mouth, but others, no. Still, they are yours, children of your heart, children to love and protect, like any good father loves and protects his children. Some you will protect by seeing and guiding them in the way they should go, some you will protect by seeing nothing and praying for them and letting them find their own way."

Van got a puzzled look on his face, as if his vision puzzled even himself, "many you will lose, many will perish, many you will mourn. There will be those who never accept what you are to them, and you will sorrow at that, but also you will accept it is the way of things and not hold resentment in your heart, but continue to love them as before. Still, there will be those who do understand, if not now, then eventually. Those who will lift up their voices to give you honor and respect and love, though they may be shy about speaking those words out loud. It matters not; you will be able to hear them, even if they speak only with their hearts."

"And there will be one child you will cherish and protect long past the others needing your protection, for he is broken in spirit and in mind; there will be no healing for him, but you will care for him, as you care for each of your children, until peace finds him in the end. And while, when it comes time to carve your tombstone, the stonemason will, all unknowingly, carve the names of only five kinder on that stone, there will be many other names, so many others, that will echo around your resting place, saying "he was our father as well. We also were his children. Do not forget us, do not forget our place in his life, his place in ours."

Schultz rolled his eyes, listening. {"Such foolishness! I am an old man with five children! What, he thinks I'm to go on a rampage and . . . "} 

 

"NO! NO! You cannot DO that, Private Meyer! You must not fight with Private Lutz over something as foolish as whose sister is prettier! I am sure they are both perfectly lovely girls. Be good boys, now and shake hands!" Schultz watched while the two young men, fast friends until this unexpected conflict, flushed then gave sheepish grins and shook hands. {"Ach die Lieber! Photographs many years old, folded and faded and worn so that you can hardly tell they are people, much less young women, and they are fighting over who is prettiest! Boys!"}

 

"LeBeau, Cockroach, PLEASE! You should not be in here! It is verbotten! Go, back to the Barracks, do not get into trouble. And take Carter with you. Yes, Carter, come out from under the desk and leave with the Cockroach! No, I do NOT want to know what you were looking for! I see nothing, nothing! Just go!" Schultz shook his head in worry; he did NOT see that piece of folded paper in Carter's pants pocket; he REFUSED to see that piece of paper! No, he saw NOTHING, NOTHING!

 

"Karl, if you wish to write, then you should do so. The old legends, the new ones, they have merit. There are many who wish to hear them, would want them remembered. And if you wish to create new stories, then do that too. Much pleasure you give to the others with your stories, although I would prefer you not tell them before we are due for an inspection. The men do not need to appear sleepless or nervous when the bigshots come to camp. No, if you are drawn to this thing, then do it. There is no shame in making your way with a pen rather than a rifle. I can only wish there were more who decided to do so."

 

"Shuush, a word, Olsen! You must not use the west road to go to see your Clara; the new owner of the property next to her has many friends in the Gestapo, and he is eager to do them a good turn. Yes, I know, it is her turn, but go by the road further on, or choose one of the others, Ingrid or Elsa maybe, or Clara's turn might be your LAST turn. Be a good boy, now; do as I say. And kiss her once for me, ya??" Schultz gave a low chuckle as the young man grinned and darted off for his assignation.

 

"Newkirk? What are you doing out here? It is past lights-out! You should be in your bunk! Do you WANT to get me in trouble? Ach du Lieber!"

Schultz saw the shimmer of moonlight showing where tears had crept down the irasible Englander's face. He knew better than to mention them, not to this proud, stubborn boy out of all of them. Still, he sat down heavily on the bench next to the man sitting with his head leaning back against the wooden wall, staring off into the night sky.

"But, since you are awake, I was wanting to ask you about something your Caeide wrote, that I did not understand. Maybe her letter explained it better, but the Kommandant, he called me away, you remember, before I could hear you read the rest. So, what did she mean . . .?"

By the time Newkirk focused on the question Schultz was asking, and brought his own errant mind to the subject of Haven and Caeide and the story about that rascally ram Duggan and Estelle and a most unwelcome visitor, that moment of intense loneliness and longing and despair that had threatened to crush him had been replaced with quiet laughter at the pictures flowing through his mind. "And I expect w'atever part of 'im didn't get a trouncing from that bloody ram and that great 'ound of 'ers, SHE took care of, the Brat. Right 'andy with 'er fists, my Caeide!"

Schultz nodded agreeably, sensing the crisis had passed for now.

"Best to go back to your bunk now, Newkirk. I must continue my rounds and the next guard might not wish to sit and gossip; HE might prefer to march you to the Cooler! And tomorrow, Sergeant Carter will be released from the Infirmary and you can continue arguing with him about that wolf he says he saw in the woods, even though there are few such things around here anymore, and certainly none wearing glasses and a hat, like he says. I saw him at lights out, and he was already sleeping like a baby. Such a nice boy, but much like my youngest, so innocent, far too quick to believe in fairy tales. It is good he has you to look after him; ach, the trouble he could get into otherwise!"

"Right you are, Schultzie. G'night to you, then."

Schultz watched as the rangy young man slipped back into the barracks, and gave a great sigh. {"I hope she is there waiting when he returns home, his Caeide. Though, from all her words, her letters, I believe she will be. The problem will be seeing that he survives to GO home, and with him, that will not be an easy thing to arrange. Always up to monkey-business, that boy! And when you get him and Sergeant Carter together, ach! Asking one to keep the other out of trouble! More like each drawing the other INTO some mischief! Still, it is good to have friends in times like these, and they have each other, and the Cockroach and Sergeant Kinchloe and Sergeant Olsen. At least they have that, poor boys.}

 

The old guard made one more weary round of the camp, snorting as he finally turned over the responsibility to his replacement. {"At least it is too late for them to be awake, my story tellers. I need no scary stories, nor any lusty ones, and I need no foolishness from Corporal Van about me and my "many, many, many kinder!" Such foolishness!!"}

He looked around the room one last time, noting who was asleep and who was off on rounds, bade them all a whispered "good night, boys", took off his helmet, sat his empty rifle propped against the wall and prepared for the night. Stretched out on his uncomfortable bunk, he sighed. "Such foolishness Dieter Van can come up with!"


End file.
